


The Goncharova

by mambo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Art Forger Bucky Barnes, Artist Steve Rogers, Eventual Smut, Heist, Holocaust Art Restitution, M/M, Modern Era, Restorer Bucky Barnes, art heist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 07:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17382185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mambo/pseuds/mambo
Summary: Bucky Barnes is an art conservator, and occasional art forger, trying to run a reputable business. His childhood best friend, Steve Rogers, is a contemporary art world darling and occasional vigilante.When Steve comes to Bucky asking for his help returning a painting stolen during the Holocaust to its original owner, how can he say no?





	The Goncharova

**Author's Note:**

  * For [debwalsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/debwalsh/gifts).



> And at last, my Fandom Loves Puerto Rico fics are finished. Thank you so much to Debwalsh your generosity, and for your patience as I wrote this fic for you! If you'd like to help Puerto Rico, please consider a donation to [ConPRmetidos](https://www.conprmetidos.org/).
> 
> Many, many thanks as always to my beta and friend, [hakunahistata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakunahistata/pseuds/hakunahistata)! Thanks for getting me to the end on this one.

_ “Mr. Barnes,” Alexander Pierce asks from the dark doorway of his library. The hallway light floods into the room, lighting Pierce from the back so he looks like nothing but a shadow. “What on earth are you doing?” _

_ Bucky thinks it’s probably pretty obvious what he’s doing, to be honest. Standing with Sam and Steve, both dressed in all black, he’s quickly packaging the painting in front of them so they can leave with it. Because they’re stealing the painting. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. _

_ Alexander sighs, like he’s very put upon. “I’ll be calling the police, I guess,” he says. _

_ “Wait,” Steve says from behind him, walking forward. “We can explain,” he says. _

_ “I highly doubt that,” Alexander says, raising an eyebrow as Steve approaches. Honestly, Bucky agrees with him. There’s not a whole lot of explaining they can do at this point. _

_ “Well, it’s…” Steve starts, then punches Pierce in the face. _

_ Bucky groans. _

_ “Somehow you’ve made all of this so much worse,” he says to Steve. _

_ Steve nods. “Probably,” he says. “But that did feel very satisfying.” _

_ Bucky is going to die in jail and it’s going to be Steve Rogers’ fault. _

— —

See, it starts like this. Bucky is working on a mediocre Matisse in his studio when one of his interns runs in, looking frazzled. He’s a bit irritated at the interruption — this piece belongs to some big shot hedge fund owner who doesn’t know how to take care of art, and whose kid thought it would be a fun party trick to throw a knife at the painting. Bucky’s fixed the cut, but is working on cleaning the actual paint now, which has been neglected for about forty years. He needs to focus; he doesn’t need to deal with whatever minor issue that Teddy is coming to him with. “Steve Rogers is here!” Teddy squeaks, a little red-faced and sounding nervous.

“What?” Bucky asks, setting down his palette and standing up from the stool he’s been sitting on. He flips his magnifying glasses up on his head before he asks, “Who?”

“Steve Rogers,” Teddy says and with a closer look, Bucky can see that it’s not just nerves -- he’s  _ excited as hell _ . It looks like the poor kid’s shaking. “ _ The _ Steve Rogers.”

“The painter?” Bucky asks. Can’t say he knows much about the guy’s work. Bucky tends to work with -- and therefore, tends to study -- historical paintings, mainly neoclassical through modern. They tend to be the most damaged and in need of fixing. Besides, with contemporary art, you can just kind of break it and call it finished, even if it was Marcel Duchamp that did that first. Besides, he doesn’t love contemporary art. He’s not in this business to be high concept; he does much better in his world of rules and procedures. If there’s a tear, you sew it. That sort of thing.

That being said, he does have a bit of a soft spot for this artist, Steve Rogers. He has the same name as his childhood best friend, so it makes him smile when he sees the guy breaking yet another auction record, even if he can’t be bothered to actually go see his work at the New Museum.

“Of course the painter!” Teddy says in a rush, sounding a little defensive and looking exasperated with Bucky. It’s not an uncommon look on his face. At least Bucky pays his interns well; otherwise, he can’t imagine why someone would want the job. Bucky isn’t the greatest boss in the world, oftentimes a lot more focused on his work than on remembering things like lunch breaks. “And he’s asking for you  _ by name _ ,” he adds, as if Bucky’s name isn’t the name of the business. It’d be kind of ridiculous to walk in there and ask for anyone but Bucky by name. It’s not like anyone is knocking down the door to go hire Teddy. Sorry Teddy.

“Tell him I’m busy,” Bucky says, looking back at the canvas. He’s on the clock to get this one done, whether a famous artist is in the office or not. “He can call and set up an appointment like anyone else would.” Bucky doesn’t care how many Sotheby’s records the man has broken; his time is just as valuable as anyone else’s.

Teddy clears his throat.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“He told me to tell you that if you didn’t want to see him, that he’d post the photos he has of you peeing in the swimming pool at Clint Barton’s eighth birthday party on his Instagram,” Teddy says, cheeks going redder like he’s embarrassed to speak the words out loud. Bucky looks back at Teddy. Teddy looks like he wants to melt into the ground. “He told me to tell you that he has 1.3 million followers.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Bucky says, stripping off his magnifying glasses and marching past Teddy into the front office where lo and behold, a familiar — though bigger — blond person is waiting for him. “Steve Rogers?” Bucky asks, an eyebrow raised.

Steve turns around, from where he’d been admiring the painting on the wall. “Is this one of yours?” he asks, gesturing to the small painting behind him.

Bucky frowns. “No,” he lies, “it’s an early sketch by Charles Demuth. Bought it in a private sale a few years ago.” He looks at Teddy. “Can you go pick up the mail?” he asks, mostly because he doesn’t want him to hear the rest of this conversation.

“Like the one you did for the Art Institute of Chicago’s collection?” Steve asks with a smile, ignoring everything Bucky just said after Teddy leaves the room.

The forgery at the Art Institute wasn’t commissioned by the Art Institute, but by a donor who was in a tight corner and needed something quick with a reasonable value. Bucky was younger when he took the commission; at the time, his burgeoning forgery business was his only source of income. He was paying for conservation school and his parents had just passed away, leaving him with a sizeable amount of debt and no other way to pay it off. It was a no-brainer to take the commission, even if he didn’t totally believe that the piece was destined for a private collection. Now, he has his clients sign agreements that they won’t donate the work to museums because he can’t have that shit getting traced back to him. Also, it’s unethical. Besides, he only does one or two reproductions or look-alikes a year nowadays. It’s too risky, and he does just fine in his work as a conservator and restorer. The forgery money pretty much all goes to his yearly vacation. He has a very good vacation.

Bucky cocks his head and crosses his arm as he puts on the biggest and fakest smile he’s ever had. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You get dumber since the last time I saw you?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“C’mon Buck, you know that I was always the brains of the operation.”

“Maybe those roles have switched. You’re looking good, Steve,” Bucky says, giving Steve a once-over. He  _ is _ looking good, walking into Bucky’s office all broad and tall and shit, even if he’s still mouthy and annoying as all hell. Looking a lot different than he last saw him, back at fourteen, when he weighed about as much as a Corgi, but looking good. Not that Steve didn’t look good back then; it’s just different now. Bucky could do without the leather jacket Steve’s wearing — makes it look like he’s trying just a little too hard — but the overall effect is worth it.

It’s better when Steve blushes. “ _ Buck _ ,” he whines, all put out, like it’s been a week since they last saw each other and not fifteen years. 

Bucky shrugs. “You come here, try to make me uncomfortable, and I can’t reciprocate?”

“I didn’t come here to make you uncomfortable,” Steve says, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets and not looking Bucky in the eye. He’s definitely lying. Fifteen years later, and Bucky can still tell. The guy needs to work a bit more on hiding all of his tells. It’s good that he became an artist and not a poker player.

“Then what did you come here for?” Bucky asks. “If you wanted to reconnect, you could’ve called. I have an Instagram, which you apparently know about. You heard of dropping into someone’s DMs? That’s how the kids are doing it nowadays.”

“I actually came here with a business proposition,” Steve says. “It’s not classy to drop into someone’s DMs with a business proposition, is it?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s not classy if you’re not a Soundcloud artist. And the proposition’s not for a Demuth watercolor, either,” he adds. “Even if Demuth is one of my favorites and I know you’re pretty good at those. Fooled a lot of people that have much more expertise than I do.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Goodbye Steve,” he says, taking a step backwards towards his studio.

“Wait wait,” Steve says chuckling as he takes a few steps towards Bucky. “I’m serious.” He dips his head just a little to look into Bucky’s eyes. It’s kind of a rush to know that Bucky has to look  _ up _ at Steve now. There’s something sort of topsy turvy about the act of it. He’s so used to Steve being short, a handful of attitude and smiles. “I have a business proposition for you. I really do.”

“I’ve got ten minutes,” Bucky says. “But only because you’re an old friend. And any subsequent conversations we may have will need an appointment, two weeks in advance.”

“Ten minutes is all I need,” Steve says, grinning.

Steve is lying again.

Bucky rolls his eyes, then shows Steve to his private office.

— —

“You’d like me to  _ what _ ?” Bucky asks, pacing the small space behind his desk, looking at the man seated in the comfortable leather chair in front of it. Behind him is a row of framed degrees from prestigious programs, the best in art history and conservation. Alongside those are a series of newspaper and magazine articles about the work he’s done for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Getty, as well as his foundation for post-disaster art restoration run by him and his apprentices. Bucky’s office is a testament to his years of work. The man sitting in front of him is a testament to a past that he’s worked hard to leave behind.

“It’ll be simple,” Steve says. “Pierce will ask you to do some minor restoration work on the piece. It’ll be in decent shape, not tip-top, but enough that you’ll have some serious work. While you’re doing that, he’ll ask you to erase some handwritten information on the back of the painting. He’ll tell you some vague excuse that he think you’ll believe because he’s a sociopath. You’ll accept the gig, then create a copy of the painting without the information on the back. You’ll give the copy to Pierce, with one or two details that will make it obvious to the trained observer that it’s a forgery, and you’ll give the painting to me. He won’t notice, but when he tries to sell the painting, the appraisers sure will.”

“And what will you do with the painting?” Bucky asks, barely able to wrap his mind around Steve’s ridiculous scheme.

“I’ll look at the information on the back of the painting, confirm that the painting belongs to who it should belong to, and return it to that person.” He shrugs. “It’s easy.”

“How do you know that the painting  _ should _ belong to someone else?” Bucky asks, pausing his pacing to sit on the edge of his wooden desk. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at Steve, trying to assess whether he’s full of shit or just delusional. Knowing Steve, it’s probably both.

“I just know,” Steve says with what Bucky thinks is misplaced conviction. “Listen, I have my connections, and the word is that whatever it is that Pierce is about to sell has a long history that shouldn’t include him. I’m just trying to make things right.”

“Listen,” Bucky says, leaning forward. “I know we were friends in elementary school, but a lot’s changed since then. I can’t just march into something illegal, and which could ruin my reputation, without some kind of reason why I should do it.”

Steve sighs, then pulls his phone out of his pocket. “This is Wanda Maximoff,” he says, holding out a photo of a young woman in her twenties with long brown hair to Bucky. It looks like she could’ve combed it a bit better, to be honest, but she looks nice enough.

“Okay,” Bucky says, after a quick look. “I’m not interested,” he adds, because he’s not sure what this is about. “Oh, is she your girlfriend?” he asks, looking up. She seems a little young for Steve, but the long hair makes her look artistic, which was always Steve’s type. He used to moon over photos of Georgia O’Keeffe, even as a kid, though he insisted that his interest was purely artistic in nature.

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s not that I’m trying to set you up with her and she’s  _ not _ my girlfriend. She’s who I’m doing this for. With the exception of her grandparents, Wanda’s whole family died in Sobibór.” He pauses. “I won’t get into the details of what happened, but it’s not unlike what happened to your family,” he adds in a soft voice, which makes Bucky frown and look away from Steve, over at the cluttered wall of his fancy office.

Bucky’s maternal grandmother spent three years at Ravensbrück, the women’s concentration camp in Germany. Most of her family were sent on to Sachsenhausen, where they were murdered, but she made it through because she had a talent for sewing fur coats for the Wehrmacht. She ended up being liberated by Soviet troops during a death march to the center of Germany towards the end of the war, then managed to get herself to Brooklyn with the help of some friends who’d made it there before the war began. His maternal grandfather lost most of his family at Treblinka, where he was forced to be part of the Sonderkommando and dig mass graves for Jews and Poles killed by gas. He was part of the 1943 Sonderkommando revolt, and fled the camp, spending the rest of the war hiding in abandoned barns throughout Poland and nearly starving to death. Bucky doesn’t know how he made it out; it’s not something his grandfather wanted him to know. Bucky doesn’t blame him for it. Most of his paternal side died at Auschwitz, either through forced labor or the gas chambers. His grandparents and great uncle barely survived and made their way to Queens after the war.

Not that any of them talked about their experiences during the war all that much, but Bucky’s parents asked all of them to write their stories down at some point in the eighties, just after his great uncle died, just so that there’d be a record of what happened. Bucky wasn’t supposed to read them until after his bar mitzvah, but one day when he and Steve were home alone, the two of them stumbled on the big binders in Bucky’s dad’s office and read everything.

Those binders now sit in a cardboard box in the hall closet of Bucky’s apartment. He’s haunted by the stories inside. But he hadn’t thought Steve would remember that day all those years ago.

But apparently Steve not only remembered, but also remembered that this subject is a bit of a sore spot for Bucky and his family, a part of their history that none of them like to talk about or be reminded of. The Barneses spent most of the twentieth century trying to bury all of their trauma and grow reasonably successful small businesses out of it. His maternal side owned a hat shop. His paternal grandfather sold books. Bucky’s parents had a few video stores scattered throughout the burroughs. So far, they’ve done a pretty good job. Pretty rude of Steve to try to dredge all of this up in order to emotionally manipulate Bucky into a life of crime.

“Wanda is a friend of mine, as is her grandmother, who is on her deathbed. She has one wish: to see a painting of her mother as a student painted by Natalia Goncharova, which was stolen from the family in the thirties by the Nazis.”

“And this painting Pierce would have me restore is the painting of her great-grandmother,” Bucky says, things clicking into place. God, Steve’s an asshole. This is the exact sort of thing that could lure Bucky into a life of crime.

“Pierce’s family were exonerated Nazis who came to the United States with crates of paintings stolen from Jews. Every few years, Pierce sends a piece to auction, and that always seems to coincide with when their rightful Jewish owner passes away. Seems like a fishy way to keep your family fortune,” Steve says.

“Isn’t there someone you can go to about this? A lawyer to hire? I think Ryan Reynolds was in a movie about this kind of thing,” Bucky says. “Talented guy, Ryan Reynolds. He would be a much prettier poster boy for all of this than me.”

“You think that Wanda can afford a lawyer? Do you think she’d be on Ryan Reynolds’ radar? Bucky, she’s just a kid! And she’s all alone in this. She can barely afford school and her grandmother’s hospital bills. There’s no way she can afford a lawyer.” Steve says, getting a little more wound up than Bucky expected; he’s been cool as a cucumber since he walked into Bucky’s office. He takes a breath and seems to calm himself down. “The fact is, these cases are a little low on the world’s priority list. Who cares about some art that was stolen in the thirties, right? And there are a lot of people out there buying into conspiracy theories, who think this is just some scheme for the rich to get richer.”

“Right,” Bucky says for the sake of agreement.

“And even if people aren’t conspiracy theorists, people just assume that it’s rich people fighting for their objects, but it’s so much more than that. Not only does this painting have sentimental value to the family, but if Wanda decided to take it to auction, it could literally change her life. She’s not rich. Her family’s been struggling for years, since the day the Nazis invaded their hometown. Alexander Piece doesn’t need any more money. What he needs is for someone to find solid proof that his hoard of paintings were stolen goods and should have never been his in the first place, then for those paintings to go to the families who owned them before his family stole them.”

“And you think that person is me?” Bucky asks.

“Well,” Steve says, “I think you could be one of the people to do it. You’d be part of a team. We’ve been working together for a while. This isn’t our first case.”

Bucky looks at Steve, whose body thrums with pent-up energy, whose eyes are bright and excited. Leave it to Steve Rogers to become some kind of art bandit vigilante; he always was destined to be a Robin Hood kind of character, yelling down bullies in the schoolyard and talking back to mean teachers. When Bucky was a kid, he couldn’t say no to that face, that posture, that charisma.

Seems like he can’t as an adult, either.

“I’ll go to a meeting,” he says as Steve grins. “ _ One _ meeting for this group you’re putting together. And it’s not a firm commitment. I’m only exploring the option.”

“Good,” Steve says, standing up and wrapping his arms around Bucky. “I’m so glad I found you again,” he says in a quiet voice into Bucky’s ear as Bucky stands rigid and awkward in Steve’s arms. “I think you’re the missing piece.”

— —

“I have one more question,” Bucky says when Steve pulls away from the hug in what feels like nine minutes later. “How did you know about the forgeries?”

“I’ve been following your career since the day you graduated from Pratt,” Steve says. “I’ve always kept tabs on you and if you’re really trying to dig, it’s not that hard to figure out. Especially back when you were not such a big deal; it was a lot easier to figure out about your side hustle.”

“That’s… endearingly creepy,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t mean it to be creepy. It’s just easy to look people up on social media, online,” he says. “I almost got in touch with you a few years ago about getting a Stuart Davis for myself, but I didn’t know if you’d give a friends and family discount on your work and it was definitely out of my price range.” He leans back against the wall, thoughtful. “Today I’d probably be more interested in Romaine Brooks, though I pretty constantly change my mind.  _ Do  _ you have a friends and family discount?”

“From what I’ve heard about you, you don’t need a discount of any kind nowadays,” Bucky says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“So you’ve been keeping up with me?” Steve asks, mouth ticking upwards into a smirk.

Bucky shakes his head, feeling his cheeks go a little hot. “Not exactly. Heard about some stupid mook named Steve Rogers who became some bigshot artist. Never connected it with the guy I used to play doctor with when I was eight.”

“Funny how playing doctor is your first association of me.” Steve’s smirk turns into an out-right grin.

“Yeah, there’s something really wrong down there. Never managed to get it out of my memory. It’s burned in there, wish it wasn’t.”

Steve’s face falls. “Really?” he asks, looking downward with concern.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Jesus,” he says. “No you don’t have a weird dick, or at least you don’t in my very distant, very foggy memory,” Bucky says. “Can we move on now?”

“Sure,” Steve says. “What would you like to move on to?”

“My work,” Bucky suggests. “I’m still on the clock, here. Not all of us have an artist’s lack of a schedule. Some of us have deadlines we gotta adhere to or else there’s broken contracts and hell to pay.” He’s taking some liberties with what he thinks an artist does, but he feels like he’s entitled.

“Oh, can I see where you work?” Steve ask, straightening up like an over eager pup.

“No,” Bucky says.

“Why not?” Steve asks with a pout.

“Because we’re not friends? Because you’re asking me to join your gang of illegal art reclaimers? Because not even my actual friends have seen my studio?” 

“Is that because you’re busy forging famous art in there?” Steve asks with a playful frown, somehow getting the upper-hand in the conversation once again.

Bucky’s eyes go steely. “Are you trying to blackmail me?” he asks plainly, because if Steve is, they may as well get it out in the open now.

“No,” Steve says, sounding surprised, playful expression evaporating in a moment into wide-eyed concern. It’s nice to see he has as much concern about this as he does for his dick. “I don’t care what you’re doing in there, I really don’t.”

“Because I do maybe one, two of those paintings a year, and never for museum collections. Everyone who buys them knows what they’re getting. They sign a binding contract that states that they won’t donate the works to cultural institutions of any kind. It’s only for—”

“Bucky,” Steve interrupts. “I promise that no matter what happens, I would never sell you out, about that or about anything else. You may not think so, but we’re friends. I’ll always be your friend. You don’t do that to a friend. I’m just… I’m happy to see that you’re successful and that you’re well. That’s all. I really want you to be well.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “I don’t think I trust you,” he says, voice hesitant, not sure that he believes in what he’s saying.

Steve smiles. “You will,” he says, reaching forward to clap Bucky on the shoulder, then dropping his arm and walking away. 

He’s halfway through the door when he stops. “Oh,” he says, turning back around. “What’s your phone number? I have to text you about the meeting. Time, place, stuff like that.”

“You’re leaving a paper trail?” Bucky asks, disappointed but not surprised. “You’re not much of a criminal mastermind.”

Steve shrugs. “Never said I was. And I prefer to think of myself as a Robin Hood figure, not necessarily a criminal mastermind. If for no other reason than I can’t pull of Lex Luthor baldness.” He pauses. “But it’s more romantic that way, don’t you think?” he asks, smiling at Bucky as if he can’t help himself, as if this is all some kind of joke and not something that should have landed Steve in jail, if it weren’t for his own dumb luck.

“Whatever gets you through the night,” Bucky says before rattling off his cell number. “I’ll be looking forward to your incriminating messages.”

Steve grins. “I know you will be,” he says, before walking out of Bucky’s office.

When he’s gone, Bucky sighs, sitting down in his desk chair. On his desk are a few framed photos of the people who are important to him: his parents, his sister, and Natasha. He pulls one out from behind the others, one he’s had since he was a teenager but never bothered to get rid of, which shows a picture of a young boy with a mop of dark hair with his arm slung around a slighter boy with blond hair. They’re both mugging for the camera, wearing dirty t-shirts, cheeks caked with mud.

“Steve Rogers,” he mutters, looking at the photo. “What the fuck happened to us?” he asks before opening his desk drawer and plopping the photo inside.

— —

“This is ridiculous,” Bucky says out loud as he stands in front of Barton’s, a skeezy-looking pub in Bushwick. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he adds under his breath. He’s talking to himself, only more evidence that he shouldn’t be here, that this whole thing is a very bad plan.

“That’s what most people who come here say,” says a guy coming around Bucky’s side. “You here to see Steve?” he asks with a smile. He’s got a gap tooth, which is endearingly adorable. The fact that he seems to know Steve? Less adorable.

“How could you tell?”

“The look of being pulled into something you’re not sure you want to be pulled into,” he says, then reaches out a hand. “I’m Sam Wilson,” he says. “Steve’s  _ usual  _ partner in crime.”

“Literal partner in crime?” Bucky asks as they shake hands. 

“Occasionally,” he admits with a shrug. “I like him, though. He’s got his heart in the right place.”

“Guess that’s why I’m here,” Bucky says, looking back up at the pub. It looks like the kind of place where you’d get hepatitis just from walking inside.

“Or you’re just easily swayed,” Sam says. “Who are you, again?”

“Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says, thinking that maybe he should think of a pseudonym for this occasion. If there was ever a time to think of a call name, now would be the time to do so. But he just can’t see himself with some weird fake name like the Winter Soldier or White Wolf. It’s way too action movie-ish and he’s just an art conservator in the wrong place at the wrong time. “I’m...”

“The art forger,” Sam says.

“See, that should really be a secret,” Bucky says, half-annoyed. “How is it that everyone knows about that?”

“Steve knew and told me,” Sam says. “The rest of us, too. Hey, you think you can make my mom a Monet? She’s a big fan.”

“Sure thing. There’s a bit of a waitlist right now, and I usually charge—”

“My mom is a retired kindergarten teacher. Think of it as a good deed for a lady who spent her life serving others,” Sam says.

Bucky sighs. “Maybe if after all of this I’m not in jail.”

“We’ll continue this conversation then. Don’t think we won’t,” Sam says as he opens the door to Barton’s and walks inside, Bucky following close behind.

Barton’s is a dingy place, the kind of bar that Bucky would’ve gone to when he was eighteen but wouldn’t step foot in today, mainly because his feet are currently getting coated in something sticky that he doesn’t want to think about and he wears nice shoes. Not that he has anything against dive bars — it’s just that he’s sort of passed by them. He’s a lot happier in a quiet room with a glass of wine and someone interesting to talk to than in a loud place with cheap beer and no one interesting to talk to. Or, at least, no one you can hear over the thumping music.

Bucky feels old.

“Bucky! Sam!” Steve says from the bar, getting up and waving enthusiastically, smile big and broad. The place looks like it’s closed, or at least there aren’t many customers. As far as people goes, there’s a bartender — a blond guy with a bandage over his nose and hearing aids — cleaning a glass behind the bar, Steve, and a few other people sitting near Steve. There’s music playing, but it’s low, which Bucky is grateful for. If he gets a migraine now, he’s a goner.

Of course, Steve bounds over, first wrapping Sam in a big hug and then, to Bucky’s surprise, him. “I’m glad you made it,” he says quietly in Bucky’s ear before pulling away.

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky says, feeling uncomfortable and out of place. They’re on Steve’s turf now, and Bucky feels increasingly aware of it at every moment. This isn’t his organized office anymore and the stakes feel higher. “Why are we meeting here?” he asks, which has been on his mind since he first got Steve’s text.

“Clint Barton, he owns the place, he’s going to help us,” Steve says. “He’s an old friend.”

“Are you dragging all of your old friends into this?” Bucky asks, eyebrow raised. “Don’t you have any new friends whose lives you wanna wreck?”

“Pretty much,” Sam says, chuckling. He elbows Steve in the ribs. “Old, new, doesn’t matter to this guy. It’s just a coup that he got you this time around,” he adds.

Bucky frowns. “This time?” he asks. “You’ve done this before?”

“It’s his entire side hustle,” Sam says. “And he’s wanted you since day one.”

“Sam,” Steve says in a stern voice as his cheeks heat up.

Sam shrugs, raising his arms up. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” he says.

“I’m still glad you’re here,” Steve says to Bucky. “Don’t listen to Sam. Come take a seat and I’ll introduce you around.”

— —

It’s a ragtag crew and even by the end of Steve rattling off their plan, he still isn’t sure what everyone is doing there and why. With the exception of a few of them with really clear parts — Steve, Bucky, Sam, and a woman named Carol all have defined roles — most of the people seem like they’re just friends of Steve’s, here for a giggle, having been of use on some mission a while back but wanting to stick around for the ride.

Bucky is… not impressed.

“I need to talk to you,” he says to Steve.

Steve, nursing a beer and laughing about something someone said, looks up at him with a smile. When he sees Bucky’s expression, the smile falls. “Sure,” he says, setting his beer down on the bar and standing up. “Come with me,” he says, taking Bucky’s elbow in his hand and steering him towards a quieter part of the room.

“I can take myself,” Bucky says, which is kind of a stupid phrase, but he doesn’t necessarily want to be treated like a dog on a leash. He’s not Steve’s bitch, in the original meaning of the word.

Steve looks over at him and smiles, letting go and raising his hands. “Sorry,” he says. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

Steve was always pretty grabby.

Bucky has a thousand and one memories of Steve grabbing his hand, his elbow, his arm, dragging him around to see a cute dog, or pretty picture, or some kind of injustice happening that they needed to solve and  _ now _ . Steve wasn’t a patient kid, always needing Bucky’s attention immediately for whatever thing he had his heart set on. Bucky hadn’t minded, had been  _ happy _ to be included in whatever Steve’s adventurous eyes found or imagination conjured up. Even when it led them to trouble, Bucky wanted to be by his side.

Bucky rolls his eyes but follows Steve close behind.

To his surprise, Steve leads Bucky out of the bar and to a small room with a few couches and a dart board on the wall. Next to the dart board is a faded Picasso print, not without a few dart holes in it. Bucky grimaces as he watches Steve sit down on one of the couches. “People have definitely had sex on there,” he says, eyeing one stain in particular.

“I’ve had sex on here,” Steve says, stretching out on the couch, feet up on the cushions. He grins at Bucky. “So if that was an invitation…” He raises his eyebrows. 

“Well, when you make it sound so appealing...” Bucky trails off, shaking his head. “No, let’s be serious for a second.”

Steve sits back up, frowning. “Sure,” he says. “What’s up?”

“I’m not sure this is for me,” Bucky says.

“Buck—“

“I’d be risking everything,” Bucky says. “I’ve worked hard. I have plans, Steve.”

“I know you’ve worked hard, Buck. We all have. Everyone here is putting everything on the line to do what’s right.”

“No one in that room seems all that concerned, including you,” Bucky says, not meeting Steve’s eyes.

Steve’s face goes serious in an instant. “I’m serious,” he says. “I may be hanging out with my friends right now, but this crew has done this before. Keeping a sense of humor and sense of calm is important. You can’t pull something like this off if you don’t like each other. But you also can’t pull something like this off if you aren’t serious; that’s when things fall through the cracks. We won’t let you fall through the cracks, Bucky.”

“Then why can’t they do it again?” Bucky says, too quickly, then looks down with something like shame. He exhales. “I don’t see why I’m so necessary to this plot, especially since I’m the least experienced and have the most to lose.”

“I wouldn’t give yourself so much credit, Buck. We all have things to lose.” Bucky can’t meet Steve’s eye, teeth grinding as he frowns. He doesn’t sound all that judgmental, but Bucky feels Steve’s judgment shining on him like a spotlight. “But I know where you’re coming from,” he continues in a softer voice, which makes Bucky look up at last. “It’s okay to be nervous or even afraid. Bucky. I’m not dragging you into this this for kicks. The reason I haven’t tried to drag you in before is because I didn’t want to do that to you. There have been a dozen of these cases where we could’ve used you. But I’m asking you for this because no one else can get in there. Period. You have Pierce’s trust. Without you, all of this falls apart.”

“Steve,” Bucky says. “I’m not sure I—”

“Buck, you’re the same guy who befriended me even though no one would even look my way. You protected kids on the playground and made sure that everyone had a partner in class. Time may have gone by, but it’s not like your fundamental self has changed that much, even if you’ve made mistakes.” He stands up and crosses the room to where Bucky is. He reaches down and takes one of Bucky’s hands in both of his and squeezes tight. Up close, it’s impossible to avoid Steve’s eyes. “I promise you that you will be fine. I’ve done this before. I’ll done this again. And if something goes wrong, I’ll protect you like you protected me a hundred times. If you just follow my lead, I won’t lead you astray.”

Bucky sighs, looking into Steve’s big, blue, earnest eyes. He’s reminded again of the hundred times where Steve dragged him into things he didn’t want to do, whether that was a fake archaeological dig in the playground sandbox that definitely looked unsanitary, or crusading for a classmate who had their lunch stolen. He’s charismatic, to say the least, and always has been. Even if he’s bigger now, he’s still the same guy he was.

Grabby. Pushy.  _ Convincing _ .

“That’s some speech,” Bucky says after a long moment.

“But did it work?” Steve asks.

“I think I’ll need a few more pep talks,” Bucky hedges.

“But you’re onboard,” Steve says. It’s not a question.

Bucky nods. “Sure,” he says. “I’m on board.”

— —

“This is a very personal project,” Pierce tells him over cups of tea in his McMansion just outside of Washington D.C.. He had Bucky come all the way from New York to talk with him, even bought him the Amtrak ticket. First class. It pays to be one of the most well-respected art restorers in the United States. “This painting has been in my family for decades. It was something my mother was very partial to, actually. She had it in our sitting room for years.”

“Who’s the artist?” Bucky asks, trying to sound nonchalant but hoping for two words:

Natalia Goncharova.

“I’d like for that to remain confidential until we sign a contract,” Pierce says before taking a small sip of tea. He looks at Bucky over the rim of his teacup.

“Era?” Bucky asks, heart still beating fast.

“Again, confidential.” 

Bucky exhales, setting his own teacup down on its saucer on the glass coffee table in front of him. “Mr. Pierce, you and I both know that I’m not going to take a job that I’m not capable of. I’ll need a little more information before I sign anything. I’m sure you understand.”

“You and I both know that you’re more than capable of handling anything I throw at you,” Pierce says before taking another long sip of tea. “There’s a reason I vetted you so thoroughly and had you work on all of those tedious, small projects in the past few months. Do you really think that I needed those minor pieces by Thomas Hart Benton and William Johnson restored? They’ll just go back to storage. I just wanted to make sure that you were up to the job. I now know that you are.”

“I wouldn’t call them tedious,” Bucky says with a close-lipped smile. He had actually been pretty excited about the two Johnson paintings Pierce sent his way a few months ago. “But I knew what I’d be doing ahead of time. I don’t want to get into legal trouble when you bring me to a chromium Moholy-Nagy sculpture that I don’t know what to do with.”

“I promise you it’s nothing out of the ordinary, from a materials point of view. The painting is early twentieth-century, oil on canvas. It’s a modern work, something really exquisite. But for its restoration, I need someone who I can truly rely on. Could that be you, Mr. Barnes?” Pierce asks.

Bucky smiles. “It’s Bucky,” he says. “And I’m sure that you can rely on me,” he adds, thinking of Steve Rogers.

— —

“I’m glad your lawyer found the contract acceptable,” Pierce says as he shows Bucky through his home again two weeks later. Why he had to do all of this in the most dramatic fashion possible, rather than using the shipping company Bucky vetted and suggested to him is beyond him. The fact of the matter is that Bucky is more likely to damage the painting transporting it himself from DC to New York in his van, but God forbid you suggest anything to Alexander Pierce than exactly what he wants at any given time.

Bucky tries not to read too much into the fact that the contract is so different than the ones for the pieces Bucky’s worked on for Pierce before. No external help or shipping is allowed on this piece. Essentially, he doesn’t want anyone besides Bucky, or someone who is in Bucky’s specific employ, seeing the painting.

It seems a bit fishy, is all.

“Yeah, she said it all checked out fine. Looking forward to actually seeing the piece, though.”

“I think you’ll be satisfied with the piece,” Pierce says, as if Bucky’s satisfaction actually matters here. “Again, it really is exquisite, completely exemplative of her work, but with a little extra panache. I think it’ll fetch a high price at market.”

Bucky thinks it’s a little gauche to mention that out loud, but that’s neither here nor there. He makes a little noise of agreement, and continues following Pierce.

They turn a corner and Pierce looks at him with a small, anticipatory smile. He wants Bucky to be impressed with what he’s about to show him. “Here we are,” he says before opening the door up.

In the middle of the room, there’s a painting. It’s bright. It’s beautiful. Blocks of blues, yellows, and pinks build a mountainous landscape with an orange sky in the background. Several, small, curvaceous figures struggle against the wind in the foreground, each wrapped in a matching black coat. Pierce was right -- it’s completely exemplative of her work, but with a little extra panache. But to Bucky’s disappointment, it’s very exemplative of the work of Expressionist painter Marianne von Werefkin, not Natalia Goncharova as he’d hoped. As Steve had thought it would be.

Bucky swallows hard. 

“Yes, it really is beautiful. It’s a shame I need to send it to market,” Pierce says, as if it’s a well-made cinnamon roll and not a piece of art historical canon. He glances at Bucky. “You sure are quiet, Bucky,” he says. “Don’t you like it?”

“I uh, I guess I’d had a different artist in mind.” Bucky gives an apologetic shrug.

Pierce smiles like he knows something, though Bucky’s not worried. Pierce always smiles like he knows something. “Who?” he asks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bucky says with a smile as he relaxes. He lets himself really take in the painting; even if it’s not what he wanted, he can still appreciate the artistry of the work in front of him. “The painting is beautiful.”

“I’m curious though, who did you think the painting would be by?” Pierce presses.

“Well, I’d heard from a well-connected friend that you had a really special painting by Natalia Goncharova in your collection that you may put up for auction. I’d been hoping that would be the one I’d be working with. I’m a real fan of her work.”

Pierce brightens, apparently happy with Bucky’s response. “I do have a piece by Natalia Goncharova in my collection but it’s not appropriate to sell it. Not yet, at least,” he says, looking down at his hand, inspecting his nails. He glances back up. “If you’d like to take a look at it, I can show you the piece when you return this one,” he says, gesturing to the von Werefkin almost lazily. “It’s in storage at the moment. My wife doesn’t like to have it up in the house.”

“I’d like that a lot,” Bucky says. “Now let’s get this wrapped up and on its way.”

— —

“Fuck,” Steve says, looking at the painting in Bucky’s studio. “Just…  _ fuck _ ,” he says, then exhales hard. “I was so sure… it followed all the patterns. Sam  _ told me _ he was talking about selling it. God, I’m...  _ Fuck _ .”

“I get it, Steve, fuck fuck fuck,” he says, blase. “I  _ get _ it. We don’t need to keep going over that. What we need to do now is figure out what to do next.”

“What  _ can  _ we do next?” Steve asks, still staring at the painting, glaring at it, actually, which isn’t quite fair. It’s a beautiful painting and the fact that it’s not the painting Steve wanted to see doesn’t mean it’s the painting’s fault. “We don’t know where the painting is, even. And Wanda’s grandmother isn’t doing well,” he adds, and Bucky doesn’t mention how his voice cracks because he’s a nice guy.

“Well,” Bucky says, “that may not necessarily be the case.”

Steve looks up and over at Bucky. “What?” he asks.

“When I picked up the von Werefkin, I told Pierce that Goncharova is my favorite painter and I’d heard he had a piece in his collection. He said he’d bring the painting out for me to look at while I return this one.” He pauses. “I think he likes it when people are really impressed by his collection. Since most of the collection was stolen, I don’t think he gets many chances to parade them out.”

“Will you be taking it with you?” Steve asks, eagerly. “I mean, to...?” He gestures at Bucky’s workspace.

Bucky shakes his head. “No,” he says. “He says he’s waiting to bring it to market, that it’s not the right time.”

“Because of Wanda’s grandmother.”

Bucky shrugs. “He didn’t say why.” He pauses, looking back at the painting. “We’ll just have to steal it,” he says.

“What?”

“Steal the painting. It shouldn’t be that hard, should it? I’ve been through the house a few times and I can bring a couple people with me to help me carry this one,” he says, gesturing to the von Werefkin on his easel. “I’m not enough of a criminal mastermind to think through the details, but it seems like the only way.”

“Bucky, if we do that, the chances of us being caught shoot up,” Steve says. “You’ll be the prime suspect.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’d be the prime suspect in this gig, too,” Bucky reminds him.

“But it’s… that’s different,” Steve says. “By the time that Pierce got the duplicate, he’d be in enough hot water that he wouldn’t implicate you without implicating himself. Are you sure you’re ready to make that shift?”

“No,” Bucky says, honestly. “But I’ve been following you since I was a kid and old habits die hard.”

He looks over just in time to see a smile blooming on Steve’s face, as bright as sunshine, and as annoying as can be. Bucky rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bucky says.

“Like what?” Steve asks, grinning toothily.

“Like you’re looking at me right now.”

“It’s because you’re amazing,” Steve says. “It’s because you deserve it.”

“It’s because you’re full of shit,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes.

“Maybe so,” Steve says. “But that doesn’t change a thing about you.”

— —

Bucky gets to work on the von Werefkin, putting forward all of his usual professionalism and effort. He’s worked on hundreds of paintings that have belonged to shitty people — that doesn’t change the fact that the paintings deserve care. Plus, there’s the voice in the back of his head reminding him that this painting was probably stolen, too. Even if it’s not today, they may be able to find out who it belonged to and get it back to them, and it should be in good shape when it goes. But he quickly grows frustrated because he doesn’t hear from Steve. At all.

While he typically keeps his phone off and away while he’s working, Bucky keeps it on and near him so he can periodically take a break and look at the damn thing. He’ll have messages from Natasha and his other friends, but never a thing from Steven Grant “Formerly A Pain in Bucky’s Ass” Rogers.

“Now’s not the time to decide not to leave a paper trail,” Bucky mutters to himself at the end of his fourth day working on the Werefkin. He’s put everything else on the back burner because of Alexander Pierce’s timeline, and time is running out before he will have to bring the painting back to DC. If they’re going to steal the Goncharova, they need to get a plan together and soon. There’s not much time before he’ll be packing the von Werefkin up and hitting the road.

“Fuck it,” he says, stripping off his magnifying glasses and stomping out of his studio, dialing Steve’s number on his way out. 

Steve picks up on the third ring with a groggy-sounding, “Hello?”

“What’s your address?” Bucky asks.

“What?” Steve asks behind what sounds like a yawn. “Bucky?”

“Yes, this is Bucky. What is your address?” he asks.

He rattles off the address, somewhere near Prospect Park. “Why?”

“I’ll be over in fifteen,” Bucky says, throwing on his jacket and walking out the door before hanging up the phone over Steve’s protests.

— —

“Why are you here?” Steve asks when he answers the door; though to his credit, he does actually open the door. He’s shirtless, only wearing a pair of soft-looking grey sleep pants. It makes Bucky want to roll his eyes — he’s had a full fifteen minutes to pull on a t-shirt, but chose not to. Sure, his chest looks great, but it’s a bit unprofessional to answer the door wearing next to nothing, especially at four in the afternoon.

Well, maybe unprofessional isn’t the right word, but what is? It’s not like Bucky’s here for a booty call — he’s just here to get some answers about the crime they’re supposed to be committing in a matter of days. So… nothing but professionality on Bucky’s end.

“Business,” Bucky says, pushing past Steve and heading into Steve’s apartment.

It trips him up a little when he sees the place. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this: a little one-bedroom apartment with a tiny kitchen and framed photos on the walls. There’s none of his own art, but a few pieces that Bucky can recognize as works by people in Steve’s circle of artist friends, as well as one Charles Sheeler print. The place is a little plain with patches of color.

While Steve shuts the door, he takes a look closer at some of the photos hung near the door. There’s one of Steve and his mother, Sarah, hugging at what must be his college graduation. She looks paler than she did in Bucky’s memory, frailer. Next to it is… well, it’s a shows a photo of a young boy with a mop of dark hair with his arm slung around a slighter boy with blond hair. They’re both mugging for the camera, wearing dirty t-shirts, cheeks caked with mud. It’s the same photo that’s sitting in Bucky’s desk drawer, that he hasn’t pulled back out since Steve waltzed into his office for the first time.

Seeing it here in such a different context trips Bucky up.

“I was sleeping,” Steve says. “I had a really tough night, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

Bucky whirls around, gets into Steve’s face. “You’ve had a tough night? I’m so sorry, Steve. But you’re asking me to commit a crime in a few days and I haven’t heard a peep about how we’re going to do it! I need answers and I need them now, before I risk my life and livelihood for you and your dreams.” He’s half-embarrassed at how simultaneously angry  _ and _ dorky he sounds, but he can’t help it. All of his annoyance from the past few days mixed with his nerves about what’s to come have boiled over into anger.

“My dreams?” Steve asks, sleepy face going dark. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I mean, this stupid scheme that’s going to do what? Help one person. Out of everyone in the world, it’s going to help one person. Oh wait, sorry. Two. Two people.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forget that the only charity work that you do helps rich people after mild disasters make their paintings look good again. That’s the only true kindness you have in  _ your _ heart. Tell me, Buck, how many people benefit from a painting sitting in some millionaire’s vault?”

Bucky scowls. “That’s different,” he says.

“Yeah, because you get credit for that and you get headlines in all the right papers. This won’t matter to you because you won’t get anything out of it.”

Bucky’s mouth snaps shut. He looks away from Steve and exhales through his nose, shuts his eyes for a long moment, trying to collect himself.

“Hit the nail on the head, didn’t I?” Steve asks. Bucky’s eyes open in time to see Steve rolling his, hands on his hips. “God, I was wrong. You’re a lot different than you used to be.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky says, taking a step towards Steve. Steve being Steve, he doesn’t back away, but puffs up, looking like he’s ready for a fight. “I’m here, aren’t I? Trying to get this shit done? What the fuck have you done? So shut your mouth, get to work, and stop pretending that you know me.”

“Make me,” Steve says before reaching out and grabbing Bucky’s shirt, pulling him close. Convinced that he’s about to get punched, Bucky shuts his eyes and braces for impact, but feels Steve’s lips on his instead of Steve’s fist in his face. Bucky’s eyes fly open and sees Steve with his eyes shut, kissing Bucky for all he’s worth, skilled and a little angry.

This was not what he expected, especially when Steve’s free hand wanders down and grabs a handful of his ass.

It is not, however, unwanted.

Bucky relaxes into Steve’s touch but matches the frenzy of Steve’s pace. He wraps an arm around Steve’s back, fingers spread across his warm, bare skin, and pulls him flush against his own body. Steve breaks his lips away from Bucky’s mouth, moving down to his neck where he bites down, hard. Bucky’s breath comes up short, a surge of arousal making its way through his body. It must go through Steve’s, too, because he can feel Steve’s dick nudging him through the thin material of his grey pants.

“Bed,” Bucky pants out as Steve attacks his neck. “Your bed.”

Steve seems to get the picture. He pulls away from Buck, turns around, and walks purposefully towards the other side of the room. A little confused, Bucky stands there, boner raging, a hand going up to rub at the spot where Steve bit his neck. After Steve throws open the door, he turns to Bucky. “Well? Are you coming?” he asks, eyebrows raised and tone judgmental.

Fuck. It’s kind of mean but it’s also pretty hot.

Bucky rolls his eyes and follows, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. His chest isn’t quite as impressive as Steve’s -- who must spend a lot more time than Bucky does in the gym -- but Bucky likes to think he looks pretty good. Still, he feels Steve’s eyes passing over him in judgment and he has the sudden urge to put his shirt back on and run out of the room; Steve’s an artist with a trained eye, not to mention someone with a lot of thirsty Instagram followers. He’s probably seen better.

But before his mind can keep going down that particular trail, Steve is back on him, practically ripping his shirt off his shoulders before he pushes Bucky down onto his bed. Bucky doesn’t even have time to admire how comfortable Steve’s sheets feel underneath him before Steve is back on him, kissing his mouth with sloppy abandon, then moving down to his chest to suck at his nipple. 

Bucky just kind of focuses on breathing and not making a complete ass out of himself.

Then Steve is off of him, looking Bucky in the eye. “Do you want to have sex?” he bites out.

“What?” Bucky asks, not out of a need for clarification but out of confusion. There’s no world where Bucky wouldn’t want to have sex in this situation.

Steve rolls his eyes at him fucking again. “I need to have your clear consent. Do. You. Want. To. Have. Sex.” he asks, punctuating each word as though Bucky were stupid. 

Well, two can play at this game.

Sort of.

Bucky sort of rolls his eyes back at Steve, then says, loud and clear, “Yes. Yes, Steve. I want to have sex. Shove it on in there, let’s give it a go.”

“I can’t tell if that’s sarcastic, I need—”

Bucky surges up, pulls Steve into a harsh kiss before pulling away and saying in a breathless voice, “Let’s have sex.”

Steve doesn’t need to be told again, apparently. 

He takes charge again, pushing Bucky down onto the bed and pulling off Bucky’s pants and underwear before stepping out of his own pants. He pulls open the drawer on his bedside table, where he has everything laid out like it’s an emergency kit, and also like he has a lot of sex, Bucky’s mind supplies unhelpfully. To be honest, he doesn’t know anything about Steve’s relationship status, whether or not he’s dated in the fifteen years they lost touch. Knowing Steve, he’s not cheating on anyone. Even if he’s pissed off now, it’s not the sort of thing Steve would do.

Then again, wasn’t Steve just telling him that they don’t know each other? Maybe he—

Steve looms over Bucky, inspecting him with his eyes with a bottle of lube in one hand. “Stop thinking so much,” he orders.

Okay, maybe Steve knows him a bit better than he thought he did.

“Make me,” Bucky says and Steve cocks a grin for the first time that night. He spreads lube onto two of his fingers and sticks ‘em up in there and yeah, that makes Bucky stop thinking as he focuses on just trying to breathe as Steve fingers him with two fingers, then switches to three. “Fuck,” Bucky says as Steve hits a particularly good spot and can’t help the way he squirms.

Steve puts a firm hand on Bucky’s abdomen, as if to stop him from moving. “Wh-what?” Bucky asks, feeling sweat drip off his forehead as he leans forward to look at Steve.

“Are you ready?” Steve asks, voice low.

“Yes,” Bucky says. 

Steve removes his fingers and Bucky whimpers a little, he can’t help it. He can hear the rattle of a wrapper, and the sound of the bottle of lube again. Then he can feel Steve push inside of him, big and warm. 

“Shit,” Bucky says with feeling as Steve thrusts.

“Can’t take it?” Steve asks, something like amusement in his voice. 

“Keep… going…” Bucky says through gritted teeth, knowing he’s making a fool of himself, but feeling too good to care.

Steve keeps going, thrusting into Bucky while Bucky shuts his eyes, wrapping his legs around Steve’s waist and angling himself so Steve hits the right spots. It’s about then that he starts losing himself to the feeling, knowing that he’s probably making an ass of himself, making all sorts of stupid noises in comparison to Steve’s tense silence.

And then Steve grabs his dick in his hand and starts pumping along with the rhythm of his thrusts and Bucky feels close, so close, he could come at any—

“Bucky,” Steve orders, “Look at me.”

Bucky opens his eyes to see Steve staring at him with heat and intensity. His eyes are blue, so blue, blue like Georgia O’Keeffe’s  _ Sky Above Clouds _ , blue like Franz Marc’s  _ Blue Horses _ , blue like Van Gogh’s  _ Starry Night _ . For the first time since this began, Bucky feels something more than sexual pleasure or annoyance towards Steve. He blinks, and when he sees Steve’s eyes, they’re just blue like Steve’s eyes. They look at each other for about three seconds, then Steve comes. The sight of Steve arching his back and the feel of him letting go inside of him, coupled with his hand around Bucky’s dick sends Bucky over the edge, too, hating himself as he hears Steve’s name through his lips.

After a few moments, Steve pulls out of him and flops onto the bed next to Bucky, and Bucky is a little gratified to know that he’s not the only one trying to catch his breath.

When both of them are breathing normally again and just laying next to each other naked, Steve pulls off the condom, ties it up, and throws it away. He gets up, heads out of the room, disappearing before coming back in a minute or so later with a washcloth, which he unceremoniously drops onto Bucky’s stomach. “Here,” he says. “Get yourself cleaned up.”

Bucky, who had been enjoying the feeling of being freshly fucked, remembered that Steve was still inexplicably angry with him. “Uh, okay,” he says, getting himself to a sitting position — a bit of a mistake, because of a head rush — then half-heartedly wiping at his stomach. He watches as Steve goes to his dresser drawers and pulls out a pair of boxers and slips them on.

When he’s done with the washcloth, Bucky sets it on the bedside table for lack of a better place to put it. “Do you want me to go?” he asks to Steve’s back.

“Yes,” Steve says. 

Bucky exhales, looking down. He knows they didn’t sleep together under the best of circumstances, but it never feels good to be thrown out by someone right after sex. Not that it’s happened to Bucky before, to be honest, but if it feels anything like this, he’s sure it never feels good.

He swallows down his feelings and stands up, collecting his discarded clothing from the side of the bed. When he’s finished putting on his boxers, he looks back over at Steve, who hasn’t moved since he stood up. He swallows, then asks, “Are you okay?” in as kind a voice as he can muster, given the situation.

“I’m fine,” Steve says in a gruff voice, telegraphing the fact that he’s very much not fine.

Bucky isn’t sure what to do. Steve won’t look at him and Bucky isn’t one to stick around somewhere that he’s not wanted. So he gets dressed and he goes.

When he waits outside for his Lyft to arrive, he sees the light in Steve’s apartment go out.

— —

He has dinner with Natasha the next night, but only pokes listlessly at his lasagna. “I’ve ignored it long enough,” she says when she’s finished her last vegan meatball. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit,” Bucky says, sighing as he sets down his fork. “My life isn’t supposed to be this complicated. Things are supposed to be easier than this.”

Natasha snorts before reaching of her glass of wine. “You’re dramatic,” she says. “Complication follows drama. You’ve always been a magnet for drama, so you’ve always had a complicated life.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “This is more than just your standard, every day drama,” he says.

“Is it?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

“It’s criminal,” Bucky says. “You wanna help me steal a painting?” he asks.

Eyebrows raised, Natasha sets down her glass of wine. “I’m tentatively intrigued,” she says.

“Good,” he says. “We’re meeting tomorrow.”

— —

“Gotta say, I was surprised to get your text,” Sam says as he arrives at Barton’s. It’s a smaller crowd than last time; not everyone responded positively to Bucky’s message. “But I’m willing to show up when the bat signal is in the air.” His eyes move to Natasha. “You’re new,” he says, eyebrows raised.

Natasha stands up and glides past Bucky to shake Sam’s hand. “Natasha,” she says. “Bucky filled me in on everything that’s been going on. It’s a cute plan, but a little amateurish, but I think we’ll be able to put something together before we need to get going.

Sam blinks. “I don’t know who you are, but I trust you implicitly,” he says.

“That’s a good plan,” Bucky says before checking his watch. It’s already ten past eight, which means they’re ten minutes late to start. He looks around the small crowd. It seems like this is everyone; or, at least everyone that’s going to show up. 

He tries not to be disappointed that Steve isn’t here. After all, Bucky didn’t invite him.

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Let’s get started.”

— —

When they’ve finished up, he’s left with Natasha, Sam, and Clint at the bar. He’s nursing a second gin and tonic, knowing that he should quit now, but wondering if it would be worth getting horribly drunk. It’s been a while since he’s been good and truly sloshed. Maybe it would get his mind to shut up for a minute or two, help him forget that he’s going to commit a crime in just a few days. Help him forget that he slept with Steve, too.

“While I’m happy that we’re getting this show on the road, I gotta say that it seems a little weird to be doing this without Steve here,” Sam says. Bucky restrains the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not that he doesn’t agree, but it was the unspoken rule of this whole thing: don’t mention that Steve isn’t here. And don’t talk about why.

Though, none of them probably know why. Bucky hasn’t even told Natasha the details about what happened. It was too weird and too unexpected. He still doesn’t quite know what to make of that night and what happened between the two of them.

“He made a decision,” Bucky says, and he knows that’s all that he’ll say on the topic. There’s nothing more to say. Sure, Steve guided them here, but he doesn’t have to lead them to the finish line.

“Maybe you should call him,” Sam says, looking over at where Natasha and Clint are chatting on the other side of the bar.

“Tried that,” Bucky says.

“Maybe you should call him  _ again _ .”

“Maybe he should call  _ me _ .”

Sam exhales.

“Okay, I tried. And that’s all I can do.” He stands up. “Speaking of all I can do, that’s all I can stand for one night.”

“All you can stand of what?” Bucky asks, a smile playing on his lips.

“Of you, of this…” He gestures to the bar. “Of the weird path my life has taken since I met Steve Rogers. Yes, I’m still in. No, I don’t want to have a chat about my feelings. I’m going to get home and go to bed. Good night.”

Bucky smiles then drains the rest of his drink. “Good night.”

“You too,” he says with a wave.

Bucky sighs, then looks to Natasha and Clint. 

He pulls out his phone. There’s a few missed texts, a Facebook notification, and the usual slew of emails. No word from Steve.

Knowing that he shouldn’t, he scrolls through his contacts until he gets to Steve’s number. He calls it.

It rings. It rings. It rings.

“Hello, you’ve reached Steve Rogers. Please leave your name, number, and a short message—”

Bucky hangs up with a heavy sigh.

Another gin and tonic won’t hurt.

— —

Bucky is in the middle of a particularly difficult section on an Egon Schiele sketch when the door to his studio slams open. He drops the tweezers he’s holding on the ground and when he turns, he sees the incredibly magnified face of Steve Rogers looking pissed in his studio door. He’s barely able to get his optiVISOR off his head before Steve starts screaming.

“You have  _ no right _ ,” he yells, barreling towards Bucky.

“I thought I told you that next time you came here you’d need an appointment,” Bucky says with a frown, trying to keep cool even as his heart starts beating fast. He doesn’t try do dissect whether the beating heart is a symptom of the fright of Steve’s entrance or something else. That’s not a door he needs to beat down at the moment.

“You called a meeting without me.”

“This is an important piece. Barging in like that… You’re lucky I didn’t rip it.” Bucky gestures to the sketch on his easel.

“I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but this is serious,” Steve yells, getting between Bucky and his work station.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and you’re taking it so seriously,” he says.

“This isn’t about me,” Steve says, brows furrowed.

“Not true, everything’s about you,” Bucky says, placing his optiVISOR down on his side table and running a hand through his hair. “I’m working. Come back another time. Or you know what? Don’t.”

“You can’t just change everything without telling me.”

“Pierce is the one who changed everything. I’m just trying to adapt, something that you seem completely disinterested in doing.” He pauses, shuts his eyes. “I don’t want to argue,” he says, then opens them again. “It’s too late for me to back out of this, now that I know what’s going on. But we don’t need you to do this. So you can just feel good knowing that you started the whole thing. You don’t need to be involved from this point forward.”

“And you just have the authority to do that?” he asks.

“What can you do to stop me?” Bucky asks, raising his brows. “Call the cops?”

The righteous fury falls from Steve’s face for just a moment.

“You said you’d have my back. Lately? You haven’t had it. But I don’t care. Just as long as you stay out of the way and let us do what we need to do, it’s fine. Now get out of my studio before  _ I  _ call the cops.”

Steve just blinks, the thrumming energy he had moments ago seemingly leaving his body in an instant. “Bucky,” he says, low.

“You can leave any additional messages with my assistant,” Bucky says, reaching for his dropped tweezers.

“I shouldn’t have slept with you,” Steve says while Bucky is bent over. When he straightens up, Steve is already headed towards the door. Even after Steve’s left, Bucky is left staring at the closed door, wondering why that quiet statement hurt as much as it did.

Not too long ago, Steve told him he was the missing piece. Now he’s just a regret.

— —

“We need Steve,” Carol says the next night at Barton’s. They’re going through the minute detail of their plan and It’s not going as smoothly as Bucky would have liked, even with Natasha now on board. Her expertise has been helpful, but all of them know that there are holes that can’t quite be filled in without Steve on board.

Still, Carol didn’t have to actually say it.

“Really? I think we’re doing fine,” Bucky says, trying to sound nonchalant. Natasha raises an eyebrow. He probably failed.

“We don’t even know the dimensions of the painting,” Carol says. “Or anything about its appearance. Without Steve, we have no way to even get in touch with Wanda or her grandmother.”

“I could give you her phone number.”

Bucky looks to the bar’s entrance. Steve is standing there.

“Or I can get in touch with them myself.”

Sam smiles. “It’s good to see you, man,” he says, standing up. He walks over to Steve and gives him a quick hug and a pat on the back.

“Thanks,” Steve says. As he moves across the bar, he looks up at Bucky. “Can I sit?” he asks, gesturing towards the seat next to Bucky.

“I can’t stop you,” Bucky says, lips pursed, unable to look Steve in the eye. He’s not sure how he’s even feeling about seeing Steve there. Annoyed, for sure, and angry. But there’s also a small part of him that feels relieved. This all feels too big for himself, in a way. It’s right that Steve’s here to at least share the burden.

“Great,” Steve says, sitting down. His posture isn’t as straight as usual and he holds his hands together firmly in his lap. “So what do you need from me?” he asks, voice quiet, then smiles at the group.

— —

Bucky plans on bolting the moment the meeting’s over, but fate apparently has another plan in store for him.

“Bucky,” Steve says in a low voice as he walks up to him. “Can we talk?”

“Is no an answer I can give?” Bucky asks looking around to see if there’s anyone around who will help him. Apparently not. They’ve all gone their own ways, including Natasha, who seems to be spending an awful lot of time talking to Sam as they nurse bottles of Stella Artois.

“It’ll just take a minute,” Steve says, then gives Bucky this small, heartbreaking smile. “I promise it won’t take long,” 

Bucky exhales, then nods. Steve leads him back to the small room they’d chatted in the night of their first meeting. This time, he doesn’t take Bucky’s arm as he does it, but walks in front of Bucky with hunched shoulders. He’s not looking like himself. He hasn’t for a while.

When they’re in the room, Bucky hovers next to the sex couch, arms crossed. “What do you want?” he asks, knowing he sounds cold. Sure, he sounds cold, but he wasn’t the one who barged into Bucky’s workplace screaming. He wasn’t the one who kicked Bucky out bed.

Steve exhales. Bucky notices the deep shadows under his eyes. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” Steve says.

Bucky blinks. “What?” he asks.

“When it was the Werefkin. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Uh, alright,” Bucky says. “Is that it?”

“No, it’s not.” Steve shakes his head. “The day after that was the first anniversary of my mom’s death.”

Bucky’s hands fall to his side. “Oh,” he says quietly.

Steve nods. “It hits me hard sometimes, knowing that she’s gone. I still reach for the phone, ready to dial her number. But she won’t answer.”

“Steve,” Bucky says quietly.

“When the plan changed and that day hit, it felt like too much. I started doing all of this because of her, you know. The first person whose painting we found was one of her patients. She gave it to him and he started crying, just seeing it. It was a Max Beckmann, something that his father bought years before. He remembered crawling up to it as a child and putting his hand on the thick paint only to have his father scold him. He touched it again and told us that it was just how he remembered.”

Not quite knowing what to say, Bucky says nothing.

“I make art for a living but my work has never touched someone that way. That’s the way that art should touch someone.”

“It’s not like you can manufacture that kind of thing,” Bucky says in a quiet voice. “I don’t think you really want your art to be stolen from its rightful owners like that. I don’t think you want—”

“I get it,” Steve cuts off gently. He sighs. “What I’m trying to say is that until now, it’s been pretty easy. Slipping a twenty to the right security guy, wearing a black hoodie with the hood up. Most of the pieces were in easy-to-access storage. They didn’t take this kind of planning. It was just something we could do.”

“But you’re not someone who gives up,” Bucky says.

“No, I’m not,” Steve agrees. He bites down on his bottom lip. “It was a blip,” he admits. “I thought I’d give myself three days to wallow. Three days, then I’d pull myself back up. Then you came to my apartment.”

“And made things worse.”

Steve shakes his head. “I escalated things. I have a tendency to do that.” He pauses. “When you got there, I couldn’t help but think ‘maybe he knows, maybe he’s here for me’. And when you weren’t, I kind of lost it.”

“I did come in guns flaring, as I were.”

“So I thought that if I couldn’t get the comfort I wanted from you, I’d take it, well, physically.”

“Huh.”

“I’m not proud of that. I shouldn’t have slept with you.”

“Yeah, you said,” Bucky says, not meeting Steve’s eyes. He really didn’t need Steve to bring that up again, truth be told.

“It’s not… I said that in anger, last time. Because I was angry, at you, and at myself. For letting myself give into emotion and make a mess of things. For making a mess of things with you, Bucky.”

“Is the me part significant?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he says, then looks away.

“Care to elaborate?” 

“No,” Steve says, but before Bucky can respond, he adds, “but I will. I just… I need a second.”

Bucky gives him a second. He even gives him two.

“I told you that I’d kept tabs on you for a long time, and that’s true. But I never wanted to contact you. I’m a mess and I know that. You seem to have everything put together.”

Bucky doesn’t disagree. He projects an aura of being put together. It’s important for his business.

“But when ma died, I ended up checking in on you more and more. It became comforting. You were the last connection I really had to the life I had when I was a kid, y’know? You were my best friend. I never forgot that.”

“Me neither,” Bucky says, thinking of that stupid photo still sitting in his desk drawer.

“I told myself that I was getting in touch with you about this because you were perfect for the assignment. I lied. I just wanted to see you again, talk to you again. It was the perfect excuse. It was all so selfish.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t… I hadn’t…” He exhales, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks down.

“It’s okay,” Bucky starts. “It’s—“

“No, it’s not,” Steve interrupts. He sighs, and then he looks back up at Bucky. “I didn’t mean to fall for you. I didn’t think I could fall so fast. But I did. And now we’re…” He shakes his head again. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits. “I’ve just messed… I’ve messed absolutely everything up.”

“Hold on just a second,” Bucky says, holding up a finger. 

“What?” Steve asks.

“What do you mean, ‘you fell for me’?” he asks, because he’s not quite sure what Steve means by that. Or, well, he knows what that means, logically. It’s a phrase that he’s aware of, that has been used to describe what someone has felt for him before. He’s just not sure why Steve is saying it to him.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Steve asks.

“Who’s on first?” Bucky asks, rolling his eyes.

“What?”

“No, he’s on second.” Steve stares at him. “How do you not know that?” he asks. “There is no earthly reason you should not know that.”

“I’m lost.”

“So am I! One day you’re screaming at me about how terrible I am and how you regret sleeping with me, and now you’re falling for me?”

“Fallen,” Steve corrects. Bucky scowls. “It happened,” he adds with a shrug. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s stupid,” Steve says.

“Loving me isn’t stupid,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “There are a lot of stupid things about you, but I can’t fault anyone for loving me.”

“Wow,” Steve says.

“What is stupid is how you’ve gone about all of this. If you wanted to ask me on a date, you could’ve just asked me on a date! You didn’t need to get me involved with an illegal art theft ring!”

Steve blinks. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want me around,” he says.

“And you thought that dragging me into—”

“Yes,” Steve interrupts, rolling his eyes again. “Yes, I thought that would be the way to do it.”

“You seriously lack perspective,” Bucky says.

“But you’re here, right? You’re the one organizing all of this now,” he adds. “It’s because I was right about you all along.”

“Sure you were,” Bucky says.

“You can’t leave things that need help alone.” Bucky swallows hard. “You haven’t changed. You really haven’t…” He trails off, takes a step forward. “I haven’t changed, either,” he says.

“Sure you have,” Bucky says, noticing just how close Steve is now. It’s a small, musty room, smelling like spilled beer and, suddenly, Steve.

“Not in the ways that matter,” he says, putting an arm around Bucky, hand resting at the small of his back. “I’m still attracted to you like a moth to the flame. Didn’t matter when you were the coolest kid on the playground. Doesn’t matter now that you’re a bougie art restorer. I just… I want you,” he adds, the last sentence barely above a whisper.

Loud music starts to play outside of the room, elsewhere in the bar. Bucky can feel the thumping underneath his feet.

“Good thing you’re an artist,” Bucky says.

“Why’s that?” Steve asks.

“You’re terrible with words,” Bucky says before closing the space between them.

— —

He wakes up the next morning in Steve’s bed. “Hi,” Steve says. He’s propped up on a few pillows, wearing a pair of thick plastic-framed glasses. He’s also just sort of staring at Bucky.

“Gonna kick me out?” Bucky asks, stifling a yawn. 

“No,” Steve says. “Never again.”

Bucky smiles and closes his eyes again. He can use a little extra sleep after the night he had.

— —

The second time he wakes up, it’s with a start.

“Buck?” Steve asks, already sitting up in bed with a book.

“I had a dream.”

“Yeah?”

“I dreamt you punched Alexander Pierce in the face.” Steve’s eyes go wide. “Please tell me that you’re not going to punch Alexander Pierce in the face.”

Steve snorts. “I’ll try not to, but no promises.”

Bucky falls back onto his pillow, groaning.

— —

“Are you ready?” Bucky asks Steve quietly as they stare down the double doors to Alexander Pierce’s McMansion in the suburbs outside of DC.

“Yes,” Steve says, as if it’s so easy and so simple to be ready to break the law in ways that couple probably land them in jail. 

Bucky is less confident. He only hope that he’ll be able to pick his cellmate(s). He thinks Sam would be fun to be incarcerated with, push comes to shove.

He reaches out and presses the doorbell. It’s answered by a woman in a maid’s uniform, who ushers them in, letting them know that Mr. Pierce is waiting for them. Steve readjusts his grip on the painting’s box. “You gotta place I can set this down?” he asks.

“Yes, I’ll show you,” the woman says. “You know where to go?” she asks Bucky.

“Think so.”

“Then, this way…” She tells Steve, letting him follow her into the house.

Bucky wanders over to the sitting room where he’s sure he’ll find Pierce. 

Except he’s not there.

Knowing that Pierce isn’t the kind of guy who’d prep iced tea for his guest by himself, Bucky’s hackles rise. Pierce knew that Bucky would arrive and he was on time. He’s also not the kind of guy who would let strangers hang out in his house alone, even if he is vaguely acquainted with the guy.

There’s something off.

He’s half-ready to go grab Steve and get out of there when someone walks into the room. “You Barnes?” he asks.

Bucky nods. “Yeah.”

“Come with me,” the guy says. He’s tall with dark, pointy hair and five o’clock shadow on his cheeks. His black leather attire looks at-odds with the pale carpet of Pierce’s home. 

“Who are you?” Bucky asks, not leaving his seat.

“Pierce’s protection. And you better come with me  _ now _ .”

Heart beating fast, Bucky follows the guy out of the room. 

They walk down a hallway Bucky hasn’t been through before, then into a comfortable-looking study, bookshelves lining the walls. Pierce is standing in the middle of the room, the Goncharova next to him.

“Ah, hello James,” he says with a smile. “You wanted to see the Goncharova?” He gestures to the painting next to him with something like pride.

“That’s exquisite,” Bucky says. And it is.

The colors are bright, bold, and beautiful. A woman’s face is surrounded by flowers, her unnatural-looking blue hair covered by a yellow kerchief. The bright eyes stare out from the painting, a small smile playing at her lips, a few soft wrinkles around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. Even with the modernist style, it’s recognizably the woman who Steve showed Bucky the pictures of, Wanda’s grandmother Magda.

Bucky takes a step closer to the painting, but the protection guy’s arm shoots out. “That’s as close as you’ll get,” he says with smirk.

Bucky turns to Pierce, who shrugs. “Just taking a little extra precaution. Truth is, there are a few people out there who’d like to get their hands on this one.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asks, looking back up at the painting. He can see why it would be the cause of so much controversy; it’s captivating. Bucky also knows why Pierce would keep such close tabs on the painting; it’s obviously one of Goncharova’s masterpieces. It really would fetch a fortune at auction.

“You know that prominent families can be targets for liars and hangers-on. Seems that a few people are under the misperception that my family got this painting through illegal means.” There’s something sharp about about Pierce’s voice that makes Bucky look over to him; he’s half-sneering when his eyes meet Bucky’s eyes. “I can assure you that these are untrue, and that anyone who says otherwise will be contacted by my lawyers for libel.”

“Wow, seems scary that people can just make baseless accusations like that,” Bucky says, shoving his hands in his pockets and rolling back onto his heels. “Makes me glad that I’m a nobody.”

“Hardly a nobody; your business is linked to your name. I’ve always found that businessmen, like ourselves, will do just about anything to protect the things that we’ve created.”

“Of course.”

“Rumlow, go ahead and pack the Goncharova up.” He turns to Bucky. “We’ll watch him take it out.”

“Of course. Thanks for bringing it out for me, especially under such trying circumstances.”

“I think we’re cut from the same cloth, James,” Pierce says as Rumlow starts packing the painting up. “I’d be happy to work with you on more projects in the future, so long as you continue doing the good work you’ve done so far.”

“I’m very happy to hear that,” Bucky says, watching Rumlow as he takes the Goncharova out of the room.

“Come, we’ll follow,” Pierce says, starting down the hallway behind Rumlow. “I think we can start out with a few of my paintings by Mondrian, just quick spruce ups, then move on to the Ernst. It’s in a bit tougher shape, but I think you’re up to the challenge. I also have a few ailing Hannah Höch collages, but they’re not my priority at the moment.”

As Pierce drones on, Bucky’s phone buzzes in his back pocket with an email from Carol.

_ Natasha broke the encryption. Files attached. Worse than we thought. _

Bucky scans the attached PDF, reading through it just as they reach a van parked outside of Pierce’s house.

“Before you toss that in the truck,” Bucky says as Rumlow’s opening the door, “I think you should take a look at this.”

He holds out his phone to Pierce.

Pierce takes the phone with a frown. Then his eyes grow wide. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asks.

“We’re gonna start by putting the Goncharova in my truck,” Bucky says. “Rumlow, you can go ahead and… thatta boy,” he says as Rumlow stops actively putting the Goncharova in his truck and looks to Pierce.

“Boss?” Rumlow asks.

“Put the painting in their van,” Pierce says through gritted teeth. “Is that enough?” he asks.

“For now,” Bucky says with a smile. Steve leaves the house and opens the truck for Rumlow with a toothy smile. 

“And you’ll delete those files?” Pierce asks, nostrils flaring.

“Of course,” Bucky lies, smoothly. 

“Brock, if you wouldn’t mind—”

But before Brock can pull the taser out from his belt, Steve has him in an iron grip from behind. Dude’s an artist but he’s also  _ jacked _ , so much so that Rumlow can’t break free, even as he tries.

Bucky shrugs. “Looks like your friend is incapacitated at the moment.” He moves over to Brock and Steve, where he pulls a zip tie out of his back pocket. He makes quick work, tying Brock’s hands behind his back, then his feet together. Then he goes to Pierce. “Just a precaution,” he says before tying Pierce’s hands together, too. “I’ll count on your discretion.”

— —

“Did you get a chance to read the files?” Bucky asks.

“No, but Natasha let me know what was in them.”

“And that was…”

They’re driving home, the Goncharova safely in the back of the truck. They’ll be in New Jersey when the files drop and the Washington Post article goes up.

“Funneling money from his political PACs to neo-Nazi terrorist militias and some child trafficking, to boot.”

“Woof,” Bucky says, leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes.

“Woof indeed,” Steve says, eyes focused on the road.

Bucky exhales, opens one eye and looks back at Steve. “You know this is the end, right?”

“End of what?”

“Your career doing this. It’ll come out that you were part of this. Me too. Even if we avoid jail, there’s no way either of us are gonna last in the art world. No one will trust us after we hacked the computer of one of the most important art collectors in the United States.”

Thank God for Natasha, is all Bucky will say. When they realized that doing a switcharoo wouldn’t be plausible, she came in and saved the day. Rather than switch the paintings, Steve used the painting as an excuse to break into Pierce’s study and get onto his computer. Natasha created a flash drive that would infect the computer with a spyware that let her into Pierce’s files. Getting Carol’s help with the encryption, the two of them were able to quickly get the files to Bucky, and to the Washington Post, as well. Pierce’s career in politics is probably over.

“Good thing I have more than enough to retire on,” Steve says with a laugh.

“That’s a little presumptuous.”

“Well, my faith in you hasn’t been misplaced yet. No reason to start doubting us now.”

Bucky grins, closing his eyes again, and watching the the countryside pass him by. Tomorrow there may be hell to pay, but today, he’ll celebrate.

— —

_ Two Years Later _

— —

Bucky is working on a particularly difficult section of a Toulouse-Lautrec painting for a very annoying client when the door to his workshop opens. “America, can you gimme a minute?”

“Not America.” Bucky looks up and there’s Steve, holding a paper bag, which probably has his lunch inside.

“You don’t have an appointment,” Bucky says, looking back at the painting and frowning. This one is a tough cookie to crack. He’s not sure which technique will work the best to get the coffee stains out of the paint.

“Didn’t think I’d need an appointment to see my husband.” Steve sets Bucky’s lunch down on Bucky’s desk on the other side of the room next to his computer.

“Your husband is very important,” Bucky says, reaching for one of his brushes. “Your husband is booked for the next three months. Your husband has no free time in sight.”

“My husband had free time last night to work on Sam’s mom’s Monet.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “That’s because he won’t leave me alone about it and because I want to be invited to dinner at her house again.”

Steve chuckles. “Did my husband get a chance to look at the news?” he asks as he drapes himself around Bucky’s back and presses a kiss to his temple.

“Your husband barely has time to bathe,” Bucky mutters, a little self-conscious about how close Steve’s face is to his armpit, as Steve pulls his phone out of his back pocket and holds it up for Bucky to read.

 

_ Holocaust survivor donates stolen painting to the Art Institute of Chicago _

> CHICAGO — Holocaust survivor Magda Lehnsherr, along with her grandchildren Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, donated a portrait of herself by Russian avant-garde artist Natalia Goncharova to the Art Institute of Chicago on Tuesday. The painting became embroiled in controversy nearly two years ago when its previous owner and former Senator Alexander Pierce admitted to knowing that it was stolen by his family during the Holocaust and offered it to Lehnsherr as a “good-will gesture” following a scandal that landed him in jail for the next three years. It has since been discovered that the majority of Pierce’s large collection of modern paintings were stolen, and efforts to redirect them to the descendants of their original owners are ongoing.
> 
> Lehnsherr and her grandchildren seemed exuberant at the painting’s unveiling in the Art Institute’s Modern Wing. When asked for a statement, Lehnsherr said, “I am happy that the painting will be seen by all now, and will remain on these walls for many years to come.”
> 
> In addition to the Goncharova, Lehnsherr’s granddaughter Wanda Maximoff donated a painting by contemporary art darling Steve Rogers, which will be the focal point of a traveling exhibit of his work scheduled for next year.

 

“It’s kind of short,” Bucky says after finishing the article.

“Is that all you have to say?” Steve asks, laughing.

Bucky shrugs. “We knew where it was going. It’s not like it’s a surprise.”

“It’s still nice. We should go see it.”

“We’ll see it when we go to the exhibit’s opening next year.”

“Yeah, but we should go see it when we’ll actually have fun.”

Bucky turns around on his stool, pulls Steve in and gives him a long kiss. 

“We’ll have fun,” Bucky says.

“Yeah?”

“Because I know of a beautiful Chagall sitting in a big shot law office on LaSalle Street that should be with the Danziger family.”

— —

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was my first and probably last attempt to write a heist story! Thanks for reading. I'm mostly just happy that I can continue my streak of posting a fic on my birthday. I'm [mamboao3](https://twitter.com/mamboao3/) on Twitter and [whtaft](whtaft.tumblr.com) on Tumblr -- come wish me happy birthday!
> 
> If you'd like a list of the artists mentioned in this fic, I'll have one in the first comment below.
> 
> [Retweet this fic](https://twitter.com/mamboao3/status/1083711471253704705) | [Reblog this fic on Tumblr](http://whtaft.tumblr.com/post/181922862054/the-goncharova-by-mambo-bucky-barnessteve-rogers)


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